Something or someone is decorating my front yard with pink cotton. It is generously scattered under the spruce tree, and more of it rains down from the upper branches. I can see the paper backing: bits of a cartoon panther and warning labels that inform me this material is not edible, smokable, or suitable for bedding, and that I should wear gloves and a mask while handling it.
“Is that yours or mine?” my neighbor asks.
“I hope it’s yours.” I should be a better neighbor about this.
I haul a ladder to the second floor of my house, open the attic access hatch, and cautiously enter. This is how slasher films start. Instead, my headlamp reveals a squirrel playground. They have left scat (the politically acceptable term for shit) EVERYWHERE. They used a stolen weed-whacker on the pink fiberglass insulation. They have pushed aside the white, blown-in insulation to gain better access to the more desirable pink cotton candy.
Yep. The insulation under the spruce tree is mine. Dammit.
I see how they get in. There is a five-inch hole through the hardware mesh under the roof vent. I suspect there are other ports of entry I cannot see. I could climb over the insulation and replace the screening, but this will result in me stepping through the ceiling ala Buster Keaton, showering ceiling lath, pink insulation, white insulation, and squirrel scat on the floor below. In a rare bout of good judgement, I retreat.
I need more information about these rodents, so I turn to the source of all reliable information: the internet. I find a helpful video titled “Unwelcome Invaders: Eastern Gray Squirrels” sponsored by the Order for Rodent Annihilation, Control, and Lasting Exile. O.R.A.C.L.E. has a professionally designed logo with an evil-eyed rodent in a baseball hat. This looks like a source of trustworthy and unbiased knowledge, so I hit play.
“Hi. I’m Bob, the education director for O.R.A.C.L.E.,” says Bob. He wears a camouflage baseball cap and blue denim shirt with BOB embroidered over his right shirt pocket. I assume Bob is not a pseudonym. “Let’s talk about the Eastern Gray Squirrel, one of the most invasive squirrels ever to hit the west coast.
“In Oregon, we have four native squirrels. Western Gray (the video cuts to a scene depicting the adorable Western Gray Squirrel), Douglas (a convulsive rodent making sounds like a squeeze toy), American Red (Small. Fuzzy.) and Townsend’s chipmunk. We even have a species of flying squirrel.” Bob reaches behind the desk and produces a poorly taxidermied flying squirrel. The eyes gaze in slightly different directions, the outstretched arms are askew, and a wire stem separates the animal from the base. If the intended effect was a squirrel in flight, the actuality is a distressed rodent tripping down a staircase.
I pause the video. I have only a vicarious experience of flying squirrels. A friend climbed into a chair bolted high in a tree, intending to shoot deer in the forest below. The seat cushion was lumpy and uncomfortable, so he adjusted it to better conform to his posterior. Without warning, a flying squirrel mother and babies erupted from beneath him, escaping the crushing disturbance to their previously cozy nest in the cushion. He describes it as a case of explosive squirrel diarrhea.
“I have never seen one of these,” I say to myself. Which is good. I can only imagine the chaos of squirrels flying from power wires to my garden. The airborne rodents would fill the skies, much like mosquitoes in the Midwest. The internet tells me a collection of squirrels is called a “scurry.” I would call a collection of flying squirrels a “mayhem.” Seriously, who thought flying squirrels were a good idea?
Bob continues. “The Eastern Gray Squirrels pushed these species out. Originally, some bonehead released them in a Vancouver, B.C. park, and they quickly spread along the coast. They eat bird eggs, carry diseases fatal to native squirrels, dig up lawns, and chew through electrical wires.”
I stop the video and silently add that they force their way into attics, eat my plums, perform identity theft, and drive without insurance. They are the bad neighbor of the squirrel world.
The next morning, the blanket of pink insulation is thicker. It’s time to call an exterminator. He shows up on Saturday afternoon. He’s a friendly guy with a big smile and a laugh.
“Are you a member of O.R.A.C.L.E.?” I ask.
“I’ve heard of this guy,” he replies with a small shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. “He’s a knucklehead. Don’t listen to him.”
He climbs into the attic. A squirrel pops up in the far corner.
“Oh – hi buddy.” He waves and smiles at the Eastern Gray squirrel. The squirrel waves back. Apparently they know each other. Are they friends? Is this a scam they have worked out in advance?
“You’ve got an infestation of squirrels,” the exterminator confirms. He climbs down and walks around the house. “They are nesting in the spruce tree, running along your roof, entering your attic at the dormer and vent, then continuing on through the plum tree and out along the back fence to the neighbors.”
He has me sign a release, giving him permission to wage a $300 war on my property, and sets two traps in the plum tree.
“We’ll come back in about a week to clear the traps,” he says. “That will be an additional $150. Then we can discuss patching up these holes so they don’t get back in.”
$300 for two traps? $150 to clear the traps? This is definitely a scam. Despite my suspicions, I pay the man.
It is less than one hour after he leaves before the traps have dispatched two squirrels. I decide to save myself $150 and clear the traps myself.
I snap on a pair of latex gloves, science-nerd eye goggles, and an exposure suit. Protected from the filth and contagion, I climb the ladder into the tree and free the (dead) squirrels from the traps, then re-bait. My wife’s expensive chunky organic peanut butter is the perfect bait, and I use a generous quantity. I put the two recently deceased squirrels into a sterile shoebox. As I strip off my protective gear, I ponder what to do with this box of death.
“Why don’t you feed them to the crows?” my wife asks. “Just put them in the street like other dead squirrels.”
Squirrels fall from power lines onto the street all the time. Crows are scavengers and delighted with a succulent road kill. My dead squirrels are in better shape than road kill, but my wife suggests I could make them more appetizing by running them over with the car.
I start to implement this plan, but after some discussion, she convinces me she was kidding. She points out there two are reasons this may not be a good-neighbor move. First, the appearance of multiple dead squirrels on the street will be a topic of conversation. Everyone on the block will, of course, assume I am responsible, because I usually am when this sort of thing happens.
Second, anyone who is not a neighbor will assume there is a satanic cult operating in southeast Portland. Fox News will be called and we will lose all of our street parking to the media circus and demonstrators, both for and against. Again, the neighbors will blame me for this.
She rolls her eyes and reminds me we have dinner plans (which don’t include squirrel casserole), so I leave the shoebox on the back porch for consideration tomorrow.
That evening I return to the video from O.R.A.C.L.E.. Bob is waiting with more useful facts.
“Eastern Gray squirrels are smart, persistent, and multitudinous,” says Bob.
I stop the video and have a crazy thought. Squirrels would be a perfect invasion force for a marauding nation, country, or planet. Crazy, but what if they are actually the forward wave of invaders from Mars, all done up with cute little tails and perky ears? If they were slimy with tentacles, we would be on alert. But we wouldn’t worry about little forest animals from a Disney movie. I wonder if they act like idiots to distract us from their real purpose.
“In movies, aliens only come here for two reasons,” says Seth Shostak, senior astronomer at the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI). “They either come here to find some resource they don’t have on their own planet, or they want to use us for some unauthorized breeding experiment.”
Shostak points out that an advanced alien civilization capable of interstellar travel would likely also possess very advanced robotic machines. “If they wanted to research our planet, they would be more likely to send those machines here than to come here themselves.”
The Cylons of Battlestar Galactica were androids, indistinguishable from biological life forms. Why not little fuzzy robots? They look like squirrels, but…
I wake the next morning to another set of dead squirrels. The two in the shoebox are one day older and riper. I have four total. There is a potential for logarithmic carnage. If so, I need to address the disposal issue in a big hurry.
If I can’t throw them in the street, the next most-obvious solution is the garbage bin. However, Portland only picks up garbage every two weeks, and they picked up ours just three days ago. Eleven days in the June sun will cause some unpleasantness, so the garbage isn’t a satisfactory solution.
I could dig a hole in the side yard and fill it with corpses. If I dig a hole of sufficient size, I will hit either a gas line, sewer line, disconnected septic tank, or ancient architectural feature. These, each in its own unique fashion, will cause a delay in squirrel entombment.
My friend owns a farm. I call him and explain my squirrel interment problem.
“May I bury dead squirrels on your property?”
“No.” Click.
Which I assume is a final answer.
I reconsider offering them to the crows in the street. There is a third reason this will not work. My neighbor feeds the crows. When she takes her dog for a walk, she flips the birds a peanut. They express their appreciation by hovering near her head. Crows dripping with squirrel gristle will not amuse her. Besides, I suspect my wife is taking sides with my neighbors.
In addition to a bin for garbage and recycling, the city supplies us with a large compost bin. Along with lawn trimmings, we may deposit meat and bones, which alarms me. What kind of compost pile can break down meat and bone? I can understand unsuspecting grass clippings. But breaking down meat and bones typically requires the digestive tract of an apex predator. I suspect the city has raised a howling pack of wolves, or possibly a breeding pair of Tyrannosaurs. Is there a danger of them escaping? The national park service tells visitors to Yellowstone National Park not to pet the bison; should we also warn visitors to the Portland City Composting facilities not to stray too close to the compost zone?
If I’m allowed to place meat and bones in the compost, I assume I’m also allowed to deposit dead squirrels. I wonder if there are restrictions on dead animals, and I do research. If you ask, the city will tell you DON’T PLACE DEAD ANIMALS IN THE COMPOST.
Ten years in jail for compost crimes seems like the only solution. I resolve to become a compost criminal.
While I am deliberating, the traps do their awful task; I now have six furry dead things. The shoebox and friends go in the compost.
I smear the traps with my wife’s special chunky organic peanut butter, then reset the springs. Less than an hour later, I am the possessor of two more dead squirrels. And again after that. I trap five squirrels daily for two consecutive days.
I told my neighbor I’ve hired an exterminator.
“It’s illegal to kill squirrels in Oregon,” she says. “Tell your exterminator to just close up the hole.”
That’s a good question worthy of some research, so I join O.R.A.C.L.E. as an associate member for the reasonable fee of $200. Wearing my complimentary baseball hat with the evil squirrel logo, I visit their office with a list of questions, including those of my neighbor.
The O.R.A.C.L.E. office shares an address with a brake shop badly in need of paint and the removal of greasy trash.
“Hi,” I say to the man drinking burnt coffee behind the counter. I strategically adjust my hat. “I’m looking for the offices of the Order for Rodent Annihilation, Control, and Lasting Exile.”
He looks up from his game of solitaire, then shouts over his shoulder. “BOB, SOMEONE FOR ORY-GULL.”
“SEND THEM BACK,” I hear from the depths of the shop. The front office staff waves his hand at the door leading to the back of the shop. I tentatively wander on through the reception area, through two bays of unusable car parts, and into the third bay. This must be the world headquarters of O.R.A.C.L.E. because there are no car parts, just Bob sitting at a metal desk salvaged from a Korean War Quonset hut. In the corner is a poorly stacked pile of live traps next to a 55-gallon drum filled with liquid. In another corner is an oil-burning stove. Black crust surrounds the stove, probably the result of sawdust mixed with petroleum by-products.
“Welcome to the Order for Rodent Annihilation, Control, and Lasting Exile,” says Bob. I know this is Bob because there is a stack of unpaid bills on the only other chair in the office, all addressed to Bob Warren, C/O O.R.A.C.L.E.. “What can I do for you?” He blows his nose on the stack of live traps by plugging one nostril with a finger and explosively snorting.
“Um. I am trapping squirrels on my property.” I move the mail from the chair and sit down. “Actually, a friend is trapping squirrels. I’ve heard it is illegal to kill squirrels in Oregon.”
“HA!” Bob leans back in the metal desk chair, also salvaged from a Quonset hut. “It’s illegal to trap native squirrels, but in urban areas those Eastern Gray assholes have pushed them all out. Your traps aren’t killing native squirrels because the Eastern Gray Squirrels already did the job. Trap away!”
“Another question,” I ask. “I have squirrels in my attic, stealing my insulation. Why not just plug the holes, then wait for the squirrels to become frustrated and move over to my neighbor’s attic?”
“Nice try.” Bob stands and turns to the shelf behind him. It contains a selection of taxidermy animals; at the left end is the flying squirrel mount from the video. From the center he picks up a dusty mounted squirrel and turns to show me. “Eastern Grays are super-successful invaders because they have a memory for where they put things and where they find things. Like the insulation in your attic. Plus, their incisors grow constantly, so they constantly gnaw on things. Plugging the holes in your attic means they just keep coming back to get access to that wonderful pink nesting material you are hoarding.”
“Oh – and don’t plug the holes if there are squirrels in your attic. They hunker down and remain quiet while you patch the hole, then spring into action the moment you leave. Hey presto, new holes. Trap out the problem squirrels first so none of them remember why your attic was so interesting.”
I ponder this wealth of information about the rodent bastards taking up residence in my house. “So, one more thing,” I say. “Is there any thought this might be bigger than just rodents behaving like rodents?”
Bob goes suddenly quiet and squints his eyes at me for a full minute.
“Birds aren’t real, you know.”
“What?” I’m puzzled by his response.
“Birds aren’t real. Look it up on the internet. Squirrels aren’t real either. But don’t tell anyone I told you so. Now, it’s best you leave before the feds review the recordings they make of my office conversations.”
I tactfully remove myself from the offices of O.R.A.C.L.E. The reception staff is still busy so I see myself out the front door.
The “Birds Aren’t Real” movement warns about the replacement of birds with mechanized surveillance drones. These look like birds, but their eyes are cameras, their ears are microphones, they carry a wireless antenna in their tail feathers, and their feet are inductive charging coils used to recharge their batteries when perched on power lines. Like my thoughts on invading squirrels, it’s a bit crazy.
If birds aren’t real, it stands to reason squirrels aren’t real either. Cameras for eyes, microphones for ears, Wi-Fi in their bushy little tails, and they are forever running along power lines, recharging their batteries. I gather these disparate pieces of information and assemble them into a coherent whole. These “rodents” (robots?) aren’t just stealing my insulation; they are reporting back to their slimy-tentacled overlords from another planet. But now I’m on to their little invader games.
My morning routine is to get up, empty the dishwasher, do yoga, then make coffee. For the last five days, I have added trap-clearing to that routine. I now have the souls of sixteen squirrels gnawing at my karma. The compost bin is a mass burial site. The smell is unmistakable. This can’t go on much longer.
I’m not squeamish about butchering and eating animals. I pull crabs from the ocean and break them apart. I kill chickens I have raised in my backyard. I filet fish. It seems a shame to throw out all of these small portions of meat wrapped in fur.
In another helpful O.R.A.C.L.E. video, Bob explains how to clean a squirrel in preparation for slow cooking in the crockpot. I briefly trip over the cognitive dissonance of robotic squirrels built of meat, but this situation calls for a suspension of rational thought.
I follow his instructions, wrap four of them in paper and surreptitiously hide them under other unlabeled plastic bags in the freezer. I think the unlabeled bags contain food, but my wife is a medical professional and I’ve become cautious about eating what I can’t identify. I leave the squirrels unlabeled as well, hopeful the assumption goes both ways.
A day later, I have the opportunity to make dinner. My father used to go deep sea fishing and would bring home unusual sea creatures. My mother would vacate the house, leaving dad unsupervised with pots, pans, and dead fish. Like him, I am unsupervised and take this opportunity to make squirrel tacos.
I call my wife in for dinner.
“Yum,” she says. “Smells great! Is this carnitas?”
“Nope,” I’m trying not to ruin the surprise.
“Pollo? Chorizo?”
“Neither. Ardilla,” I quickly continue in hopes of moving beyond the question. “Let’s eat!”
My wife speaks Spanish and isn’t fooled. She spits out the small sample she had already put in her mouth and looks at me with disbelief. I guess we are going out for dinner tonight.
There is another reason against placing dead squirrels on display in our street or hiding them in the freezer. Multiple furry casualties will alert the squirrel overlords, bright lights will fill the skies, and I’ll have an unwelcome appointment with an alien anal probe. (Although, come to think of it, my colonoscopy is overdue.)
Alien invaders will triangulate on this localized surge in squirrel mortality and begin their incursion on my block. The neighbors will object to this and will quickly blame me, as they always do.
The compost bin is my only option.
I now know we are facing an impending alien invasion and we will have to fall back on our survival skills. Common wisdom for emergency survival tells us to cache two weeks of food and water. Staples such as beans, rice, and coffee. Canned meat such as Spam will last forever, but like birds, it isn’t real and should be suspect. Fresh meat – a substantial source of protein – will only last a few hours without drying or canning.
My recently-acquired urban trapping expertise now provides me with an endless supply of red meat. Granted, this meat arrives in small packages, but the packages are frequent. A side benefit is fur mittens and hats. Beavers supplied us with hats for three-hundred years; maybe now is the time to exploit the resources presented to us by this invasion.
I’m keeping this to myself, but I have stocked up on tomato sauce, kidney beans, chili powder, and onions. Everything tastes better over a campfire and I am hopeful my wife will see it that way after two weeks with no meat.
I push through my squeamishness and continue clearing and re-baiting traps. My wife has hidden the organic stuff, so now I’m using store-brand peanut butter. My kill rate slows by day ten; I have euthanized thirty squirrels.
As I close the lid of the compost bin, the exterminator appears. Friendly, as always.
“There aren’t any squirrels in the trap,” he observes. “Any idea what happened?”
“I’ve been clearing the traps myself,” I respond.
He does the confused head-tilt thing. You’ve seen it when a Border Collie hears a strange noise. Ears go up, head tilts. “You did it yourself? How many squirrels have you trapped?”
“I lost count, but I’m pretty sure there were about thirty. We were trapping five a day for a while, but it has slowed down lately.”
He cogitates on this for a beat. It’s probable he hasn’t run into a blood-thirsty urban killer like me before today. “Thirty?”
“Pretty sure. They’re right here,” I gesture to the compost bin. “Do you want them?”
“No.” His response is quick and decisive. He looks at me with concern, and we agree thirty squirrels are probably a broad-enough sample to ensure we have trapped out the few squirrels stealing insulation from my attic. Probably enough to have solved the problem for my neighbors as well. Not enough to cover the metro area. He removes his traps and backs away towards his truck.
But I’m not sure the situation is under control. I call O.R.A.C.L.E..
“Hello, Bob?”
“Hang on, I’ll get him.” I must be talking to O.R.A.C.L.E. reception. I can hear the phone being set down on the desk. In the background, I can hear the receptionist yelling , “BOB, SOMEONE FOR ORY-GULL.”
Barely audible and unintelligible, Bob responds, followed by a pause. Someone picks up the phone. “This is O.R.A.C.L.E.. Bob speaking.”
“Hi Bob. I stopped by the other day, I…”
“Sure, I remember you. We can only talk for a minute before the feds triangulate on this call. Make it quick.”
“Um. I was wondering how many squirrels my friend has to trap to get them out of the attic?”
“Well,” responds Bob. “More than one. Less than ten.”
“So thirty should be enough?”
Bob coughed. “THIRTY? You’ve trapped thirty squirrels? What in God’s name are you doing?”
“I’m just clearing and resetting the traps. Did I get too many?”
“Too many? You are a psychopath.” He pauses. “Say, do you want a job? We need somebody to make house calls.”
I don’t think he’s joking. I decline his generous offer and hang up. I prefer to freelance.
Amazon offers a five-pack of squirrel traps and will deliver them in two days. I include an order for a six-pack of peanut butter shipped in from China.
The exterminator returns two days later with a friend willing to climb ladders and seal squirrel holes with sheet metal and caulk. They use really thick sheet metal; not quite bulletproof, but certainly something you need a license to purchase.
They climb down from the roof, careful to clear the site of poisonous caulk and bullet-proof sheet metal. It is a hot day, so I offer them a glass of water. They decline and seem to be in a hurry to leave.
“You have a one-year warranty. Good luck!”
They don’t exactly run to their trucks, but they don’t loiter in the street either.
A one-year warranty! This must be the timeline for the invasion. Within the year, aliens will attack, using intelligence from their network of Eastern Gray spy-squirrels to target attics across the United States.
Only I, and my small band of rebels struggling to restore freedom to the galaxywill be safe. I have disrupted their network. We are just a black hole with no data. Nope, nobody here. Just a big empty field. Move along. I am secure in my preparation for repelling the invaders.
That evening I have an arresting thought: I have chickens. They watch me with intense curiosity. They are birds. This means cameras for eyes, microphones for ears. I make a note to remove the extension cord powering their night light.